


My sweet lady Jane

by Phrenotobe



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-27
Updated: 2012-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 04:39:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phrenotobe/pseuds/Phrenotobe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic was inspired by Revolutionator's wistful post about more Roxy/Jane. And then somehow I found myself writing it while listening to Bruno Mars's 'Just the way you are'.<br/>I remain fairly unrepentant about my life and choices, since it was a nice change from the longer piece I'm currently working on.</p></blockquote>





	My sweet lady Jane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [revolutionator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionator/gifts).



You never knew that make-believe was the perfect excuse.  
Combing your fingers nervously through your hair, leaning a little too hard on the doorbell.  
You left the flowers wilting in the car, and wish they were still there to hold on to. Your hands are disgustingly empty.  
“Hi...” you manage, as her father opens the door. She is waiting behind him, knuckles dusty with flour. The house smells of confectionery and fresh bread.  
He's impressively tall to you. She only manages to reach just above his hip, but the power of her personality is enough to make her seem far grander. He is the only male authority figure you've ever seen with any kind of frequency, which you think is a little sad, but your mother is kind of uptight. You're not sure that you've ever seen any relatives.  
“I'm sorry, dove.” he says, and pats you down for weapons.  
You giggle, and it's slightly hysterical because she's watching you from the third step, head tilted ever so slightly to one side. Once he's satisfied that you're not a cleverly crafted automaton designed to infiltrate his suburban home, he straightens to give you a hug.  
He smells like old spice and manliness, the crackle of his starched shirt against your cheek foreign and confusing. He's a good looking guy, with a magnificent Roman nose.  
She sure looks like him, from certain angles.  
Not the nose, obviously, and you snicker into his sternum at the thought.  
He lets you go, and explains that lunch is at three, dinner at seven. He has things to attend to, so it'll be up to the two of you to entertain yourselves.  
You're pretty sure that won't be a problem. You're glad he didn't check your purse, because the entirety of your excuse for anything that happens while out of his direct supervision hinges on the small, nasty bottle of cooking whiskey tucked between lipstick and handkerchiefs. You don't drink half as often as people think you do. Like any actress, you need your props.

Her mouth jerks up at one side, and her teeth are pearl-white, offset endearingly. God. You could really do with a drink now, or something. It's that sort of smile that makes you want to do something really stupid. You roll forward on your toes and consider the pros and cons of falling into her arms straight off the bat.  
That would probably be way too stupid as an opening gambit.  
You want to do it anyway. 

She beckons you straight up to her room, solving the first problem. You see her preserved grandfather over by the fireplace and wince a little. His features are waxy and yellowed, oft-repaired from what she tells you. Gross.  
What kind of household keeps their rotting old grandpa in the lounge?  
You grab for her hand and catch only empty air as she throws open her bedroom door ahead of you.

All of the Crocker shit she owns is in a bright lurid red. If anything, it looks weird and harsh next to the dark cream of her skin. She tans fast in summer, faster when people aren't trying to cause her untimely death. You'd love to interlock her fingers with yours and gaze at the contrast when she's not busy showing you around.  
A little overcome with it all, you drop onto the bed. 

She joins you a second later, with Strider's attempt at literature in her hand.  
Yeah. It sure is a torrid tale, worth a read. The thing only gets weirder as you keep reading it. He could really do with a beta, the last chapter has awkward jumps as he starts to run out of pages. Since it's on her lap, you feel well within your rights to rest your head on her shoulder to see it. You try not to sniff her neck like a creeper, but inhaling is an entirely different thing. Entirely.  
Little lies to yourself help your world keep rotating, especially since she sometimes makes you want to cling to the floor to stop yourself from falling off.  
You are a scientist, all smart and intelligent, and a planet as large as Earth shouldn't let you do that.  
She wonders if you want a drink or something, and your laugh catches in your throat as you hiccup. A drink would be great. Really. So great.  
You follow her as she goes back downstairs, hand on the bannister as you stay a careful two steps behind. You imagine an invisible tether leading between the two of you.  
You're always going to follow her, wherever she goes.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by Revolutionator's wistful post about more Roxy/Jane. And then somehow I found myself writing it while listening to Bruno Mars's 'Just the way you are'.  
> I remain fairly unrepentant about my life and choices, since it was a nice change from the longer piece I'm currently working on.


End file.
